


not more medicine!

by floweryfran



Series: bone app the teeth, baby! [2]
Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Because I Said So!, M/M, Sick Fic, i would be triggered by chefs too. chefs scawy, peter is stubborn and johnny is bf goals, spideytorch - Freeform, thats the whole fic thats it, tw: chefs, we have lots of mucus present in this fic whoops, yes johnny WOULD paint his nails navy shut up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24528298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: "Sit your perky ass down, Peter Parker.”Peter glares at Johnny. He is not going to faint. Johnny is just a worrywart.Peter straightens from his bonelessly-hunched-over-the-counter position to tell him so, but he doesn’t quite make it that far.His knees give out and he lands hard on his ass, a wave of blackness swallowing the edges of his vision. “Oh, yikes.”“Oh, yikes,” Johnny repeats shrilly, coming to his knees at Peter’s side. Mm, Johnny on his knees. “What’s that look, Peter? What are you looking at me like that for?” Johnny slips into a whisper. “You have a faint kink? Lightheaded kink? This is not the time to be exploring that! That can be accomplished with—gentle choking rather than almostcracking your skullon themarble countertop!!”or, peter is snotty at work and johnny takes care of him (as always!)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Johnny Storm
Series: bone app the teeth, baby! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772629
Comments: 37
Kudos: 220





	not more medicine!

**Author's Note:**

> title from "ill with want" by the avett brothers, aka the song every sick fic title comes from and the band every fic title, in general, comes from!
> 
> this is part of a series! the chef au series! you do not need to read the other fic to understand this one but you can if you want [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313267) it is!!

“Well if it isn’t my favorite kitchen cryptid,” says Johnny, waltzing over to Peter’s station very—loudly. Is Johnny always so loud? Peter could hear him coming from Iceland, probably. 

“That’s mbe,” Peter says. 

Johnny freezes. “Um. Dude. Peter. What the fuck is wrong with you.”

Peter peels the corner of the towel off his head so he can look over at Johnny. Some of the steam he’d been trapping to inhale escapes into the bustle of the kitchen. 

“Aw mban,” he mumbles. “Bye, steamb. Bye, breathindg.”

Johnny cackles. “You look terrible!”

“Thandks.”

“No, like—worse than usual, you look really bad. You look like you got punched out by God.”

“An’ then mbouthfucked by Satan.”

Johnny continues to snicker, not coming any closer. He’s wearing a pale pink hairy jacket and some slacks that sit very high up on his waist and Peter is torn between wanting to punch his lights out and wanting to run his hands over him while going _Wow! Holy cow!_ “Yeah, that’s fairly accurate. Really accurate. Aw, Pete.”

Peter snurgles miserably, choking on a big glob of phlegm. He’s literally drowning in mucus. His face hurts like a motherfucker, like, his cheeks? Hurt? What the fuck is up with that. 

He presses his mouth into the corner of his elbow, leans his weight on the counter, and coughs. And coughs. And coughs, his lungs are actually burning, he has never had the lung capacity for illness but this is something new and also evil, is his inhaler still in his pocket? He’s pretty sure. Wait. No, yeah, he can feel it pressing against the counter, digging into his thigh. Ow. 

Johnny’s big, warm hands close around his shoulders, squeezing slightly, steadying. 

“Alright,” Johnny says. “Let it out.”

Peter moves the towel off his bowl of boiled water and spits the gob of mucus into it. 

It’s green. It sinks. 

“That’s not what I meant,” says Johnny. 

“I’mb finde,” says Peter. 

“I don’t remember asking.”

“I’mb so finde that I can keep doindg mby tests. Right ndow.”

“And what are you testing? The patience of the angry Russian who’s getting loogies systemically hawked at her back?”

Nat turns over her shoulder for a murderous second before returning to her marlenka. 

“Yes,” Peter answers. 

Johnny snorts, his thumb rubbing over the top knobs of Peter’s spine. All gentle. Soft man. Sweet sweet frat boy. The moth upon the lamp of Peter’s heart. “Come on, idiot. Go to the doctor. Like, right now. Or the hospital, maybe. The morgue. I’ll take you straight to the cemetery if you need.”

“You’re so genderous.” 

“Anything for you, baby boy,” Johnny says with a grin. 

Peter jerks over his knees to resume his coughing fit. Everything is sort of—pulsating? In his head? This is not how a head should feel. Ever. 

“Go findish your—garlic? Garlic?”

“I am making pickled garlic. Can you smell it?”

Peter stares at him. “Ah, scendt. I rembember the possessiond of such a luxury like it was yesterday. The best years of mby life, those were. The scendted ones.”

Johnny just coos. “Aw, does that mean you memorized my schedule? So you would know what I’m doing all the time? That’s so embarrassing for you.”

“I didn’t even mbemorize mby _own_ schedule. Why do I kndow _yours?”_

“Because you _loooove_ me,” Johnny sings, bumping their hips together. “You love me, Peter Parker!”

“I hate you, actually, a lot of hate right ndow, Blondie,” Peter says, pressing his thumbs into his temples. Ouch. Ouch, ouch. It’s like his head is a snare drum and he’s getting absolutely pounded. “Returnd to your garlic. We can findish dis later.”

“If you don’t _die_ before then.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. Idiot.” Johnny leans in to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek. It’s loud and a little gross. 

Peter feels better already. “Jerk. Love you.”

“Love you!”

And then Johnny’s gone. 

And Peter’s station returns to grey. 

Sigh. Oh, woe is he. Damned to hours unfurling misery from the ridges of his fingers, looping threads of agony around his knuckles and spinning Peneloppian tapestries from them—all faded golds and dusty browns. Vibrancy, depth of hue, he cannot achieve it while lingering in this half-hell. This cracked jetty of loneliness. Without his Odysseus, who is he?

He slumps his upper half over the counter, groaning. 

Come back, distant lover, from across the stormy seas that split them. Upon a raft of Peter’s heart—his blood and bones and gentle marrow—can Johnny return to him? His love?

Peter _mourns._

He sneezes three times in quick succession and then chokes on his own snot. 

“Hell,” he says. “Damnb mbe to hell.”

——

It’s lunchtime when Johnny comes back, this time bedecked in his usual white apron. A black turtleneck peeks out the top. Johnny looks nice in black. It makes his skin seem all golden and his hair seem all light and shiny and his eyes seem all big and Peter _wow_ Peter wants to rail him a little bit. A delicate railing. A sweet, gentle destruction of him, lovingly. To ravage him _because_ he adores him. 

“Hi,” Peter says gooily. 

Johnny squints at him. “Hi.”

“How was the garlic?”

“Garlicky. Pickly. Hey, why are you—the color you are?”

“You cand’t just ask sombeone why they’re white.”

“You are _green_ right now, Peter. Not white. You are the color of pre-barf and—extra virgin olive oil. Will you please sit?”

“Hmmm.”

“Jesus bleeding on the cross. Come on. On the ground.” 

“Noooo.”

“The fuck do you mean, _no?_ Sit your perky ass down, Peter Parker.”

Peter glares at Johnny. He is not going to faint. Johnny is just a worrywart. 

Peter straightens from his bonelessly-hunched-over-the-counter position to tell him so, but he doesn’t quite make it that far. 

His knees give out and he lands hard on his ass, a wave of blackness swallowing the edges of his vision. “Oh, yikes.”

“Oh, yikes,” Johnny repeats shrilly, coming to his knees at Peter’s side. Mm, Johnny on his knees. “What’s that look, Peter? What are you looking at me like that for?” Johnny slips into a whisper. “You have a faint kink? Lightheaded kink? This is not the time to be exploring that! That can be accomplished with—gentle choking rather than almost _cracking your skull_ on the _marble countertop!!”_

“Your ndails look ndice,” Peter says woozily. “Ndavy blue.”

“Yes, I painted them last night, thank you very much. Can you—here. Come here, idiot.” Johnny maneuvers Peter’s head onto his toasty warm shoulder. 

Peter nuzzles closer. Mm. Johnny. 

“Geez,” Johnny mutters, “how did I end up with you? IQ higher than my credit score but _Christ_ if you aren’t stupid.”

Peter wheezes on his next inhale. 

“Uh oh,” he chokes. “Left pocket. Left pocket.”

“What? What? Why are you making that _sound—oh shit, oh shit.”_

Johnny clumsily fumbles Peter’s inhaler out of his pocket and Peter manages his two breaths of albuterol. Ugh. Yucky. If he wasn’t lightheaded enough, now he’s gonna get the shakes from his asthma meds. Fun times! So fun! Please throw him in a garbage truck and press him into a cute little trash cube like they do in Wall-E!

“That’s it,” Johnny says, and now he sounds worried. Like, _worried_ worried. “You’re not staying here. Are you joking? Are you joking, Peter? You idiot, why did you come into work like this?”

“It’s jus’ a cold,” he says petulantly. 

Johnny sputters, leaning forward to catch Peter’s eyes. He takes Peter’s cheeks in his hands and holds his head in place. “This is not a cold,” he says slowly. “This is the Bubonic Plague at a minimum. I’m going to take you home now.”

“At least lemme take the subway,” Peter says. 

Johnny has the audacity to laugh, head falling back. He pats Peter’s cheek. “Yeah right. And risk you knocking out while you’re climbing off the platform? And falling onto the tracks? And then the train smearing your guts from Manhattan to Brooolyn? Yeah, no thanks. Okay. Up we go.”

Johnny takes Peter’s elbows in his hands and wrenches him to his feet, keeping his grip until they’re both sure Peter won’t drop right back down, Pinocchio-style. 

Johnny collects Peter’s tote bag and jacket and drops his steamy mucus bowl into the sink. He then proceeds to lead Peter through the kitchen by the arm like a dog on a leash. 

Peter just complies. He doesn’t _just comply_ with very much, but with regards to Johnny, he will just comply. Full stop. 

Johnny leads him onto the elevator. When the doors close, he tugs Peter into his arms. One hand skims up Peter’s neck to rest in his hair and the other slips under his shirt to rest against the skin at small of his back, all warmth and pressure and their bodies smushed close enough to pass as one sort of lumpy, disjointed one. 

Peter sighs and noses into the side of Johnny’s throat. He raises a hand and tugs halfheartedly at his turtleneck, a rueful grin playing at his lips. 

Johnny presses a little flurry of kisses into the side of his head. “Don’t get sick ever again. You scare me when you’re fainting all over the place,” he mumbles. 

“Aw. Baby.”

“Don’t pet-name me right now. I’m upset.”

“That wasn’t a pet nambe. I’mb calling you a baby. You baby.”

Johnny knocks his knuckles against Peter’s temple. 

“Weendie hut Jundior. Shrinky dindk.”

“You speak nonsense, you big stupid head.” He kisses Peter on either cheek, the bump on the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips. 

“Germs,” Peter warns, as if his chest doesn’t feel like it’s full of sunlight and honey and cotton right now. 

“I’m too sexy to get sick.”

Peter laughs, tugging Johnny’s shirt. Johnny wraps him even closer, scribbling little doodles into his spine with his fingertips. Hearts and stars and flowers. Where did Peter _find him._

The elevator doors open and Peter remembers quite suddenly that they are humans with jobs and shit. Johnny shifts Peter under his arm—a challenge, since Peter has got a whole inch on him—leading him down the long hallway of offices. 

Peter realizes quite suddenly what they’re doing. 

“Oh, ndo,” he says sadly. 

Johnny knocks on the door. 

Tony opens it. He immediately jumps back. “Did you pull him out of the East River? Jesus. What the fuck happened? Is he coked up? Storm, did you coke up my kid?”

“We arend’t related,” Peter reminds him. 

“I wouldn’t touch cocaine,” Johnny says, frowning. “And I would never let Peter touch cocaine. Okay, like, free will, it’s his choice, and I’m not out here trying to be one of those possessive boyfriends that controls everything their boyfriend does but cocaine is crossing a line. Weed is fine, I’d let him smoke a doobie—God knows I’ve been smoked up myself on many an occasion, I’ve been four-twenty-blazed, as the kids say—”

“I’m gonna stop you there,” says Tony. He’s pinching his nose in that _You give me headaches_ way he tends to do around Johnny. “I don’t care what the kids say. _I’m_ gonna say _shut up_ before you reveal government secrets or something.”

“I don’t know any government secrets.”

“Because they know if you did, you’d spoil ‘em.”

“I’mb sick,” Peter interrupts. 

Johnny looks at him. “Weren’t you just complaining about how not sick you are?”

“I amb very sick ndow. So sick. Ndever been sicker in mby life.”

Tony stares at them, then sighs. “Get outta here. Drink some orange juice or something. Take a nap, for God’s sake.”

Johnny gives Tony a salute. 

Tony slams the door in his face. 

“So!” Johnny says happily. “To urgent care!”

——

The doctor is squinting at Peter. “You’re serious? You tried? That was you trying?”

“Very mbuch,” Peter says, wagging the peak-flow meter. His lung capacity is currently half that of a regular man, it turns out. How very cool of him. A trendsetter. 

“Dude.” 

Johnny snorts from the chair in the corner. 

“Hey, mind your own busindess,” Peter tells him. 

“You are my business.”

“I think you have a sinus infection,” says the doctor. 

“That explains my face hurtindg,” says Peter. 

“No, let me finish,” says the doctor. “A sinus infection, _and_ pneumonia, _and_ bronchitis.”

Peter blinks. 

Johnny bursts out laughing. 

The doctor sighs, but grabs a paper to write up Peter’s prescription. 

——

“Will you please take a nap?” says Johnny exasperatedly, following Peter around his apartment. 

Peter, Vicks slathered all over his head and sweatpants tucked into his socks, politely says, “Ndo, thandk you.”

“I need you to take a nap so that I can take a nap. You exhaust me. Peter. Peter. Peter, stop walking around. Get over here.”

Peter does not stop walking around or get over here. He keeps walking around. He’s looking for his cell phone. He needs to tell May he’s sick now, before Tony does, because if Tony gets to her first then he’ll never hear the end of it. 

Peter stops in the bathroom and plants his hands on his hips. “Dis is a pickle,” he says. 

“That’s a toilet, baby,” Johnny corrects, standing in the doorway. He leans against the frame. Why is he so sexy? He shouldn’t get to be this sexy, just. Sexy all willy-nilly, all over the goddamn house, sexy. 

“Do you have mby—” Peter starts. 

Johnny reaches into his pocket and then holds Peter’s cell phone out. 

“How londg have you had dat?” Peter asks, scratching his eyebrow. 

“Since the urgent care center.”

“I hate you. Ndo I don’t. I was just kiddindg. Gimme.”

Johnny gives the phone over. 

Peter sends May a text. She answers right away. 

He leaves her a panicked voice message in response. “No May oh god dond’t make me soup it’s okay you dond’t—don’ cook, please don’ cook, I amb so finde.”

Johnny muffles a snort in his sleeve. “Is she that bad?”

“She burned oatmeal last week. Oatmeal! Quaker oatmeal!”

“In the little packet—?”

“Packet, yes, packet oatmeal.”

Johnny smiles, the corners of his eyes all crinkly. 

Peter’s chest presents an original interpretive dance. 

He gently socks Johnny in the stomach as he pushes past him towards the living room so Johnny knows he’s not here to endure his sunshiney ass right now. He is the opposite of sunshiney. He’s oil slicks and black ice and not enough marshmallows in your bowl of Lucky Charms. 

Johnny just snorts and follows. 

Peter throws himself on the couch and groans, pulling a throw blanket around himself and rolling until he’s cocooned. 

“My little butterfly boy,” Johnny says sweetly. “You’re still a caterpillar now. All legs and, like, gross. Maybe when you’re all better, you’ll be beautiful. Finally.”

“Findally,” Peter agrees. 

Johnny sits on the couch right by Peter’s head. Peter shoves his face into Johnny’s thigh. Mm, Johnny's thigh. 

Johnny drops both hands on Peter’s head and starts mussing his hair around. Not rubbing his head like a delicate, loving boyfriend. No. Just messing his hair up like a jerkface. 

Peter squirms. “Let go,” he whines, “stop, Johnndy, stop, I’mb already a mess, I dond’t need this right ndow.”

Johnny snorts and hunches over, wrapping his arms around Peter’s head, cradling it to his chest. He’s so warm. Peter is also so warm. Feverish. Too warm. But even now, Johnny’s warmth is different and so, so good. 

He hums, pleased with this turn of events. 

Johnny finds his forehead, brushes his bangs back, and presses a kiss there. He seems to freeze for a moment, keeping his lips pressed to Peter’s sweaty skin. 

Johnny hums, then mumbles into him, “Too warm. My baby’s hot.”

“So hot.”

“The hottest. Maybe we should take you out of these layers.”

“Mm. Fever.”

“I meant your ass cheeks clapping can be heard all the way in Ithaca and I want in on that action, but that also applies.”

Peter laughs out loud, eyes scrunching shut. He rolls to face Johnny’s stomach and wraps his arms tight around his waist. It’s a little slip of a thing. Johnny’s all narrow and soft. Peter wants to hold him forever, to feel the way his muscles expand under Peter’s palms; the way his blood rages through his veins, thrilled and sweet and strong; the way his bones pop in the morning when he’s been laid out too long. 

Johnny’s hands rest upon Peter’s back. He starts squiggling something Peter can’t follow. 

“What’re you writindg?” Peter mumbles, the rasp of Johnny’s fingertip against his sweater making him sleepy. 

“I’m conjugating _to eat_ in every language I know. Which is two, but that’s still a lot of hungry.”

Peter looks up at him through one eye. 

“I’m starving, Peter. I know you only have canned peas in your house, but I’m decomposing right now. I would eat the peas with a spoon. Right out of the can. Pea juice and all.”

“I have mbore dan canned peas. I went food shopping yesterday.”

“Miracle of miracles.”

“Go get your sndack.” 

“I thought _you_ were gonna be the snack, but okay.”

“Hbnghn.”

“Good point. Tomorrow. I can wait until tomorrow to see your skinny thighs up close and personal, probably.”

Johnny slips out from under Peter and disappears around the corner. 

Peter listens to him rustle around, feeling unnecessarily fond through the pounding in his head and the unsettling nausea from the prescription meds he’s on. 

“Ooh!” Johnny crows from the cabinet. “Pistachios!”

He comes skipping back into the room, holding them aloft, a spare bowl tucked under his arm. “‘Stachios!”

“‘Stachios,” Peter repeats softly, smiling. 

Johnny plops down onto the couch, letting Peter sit up and nudge into his side. 

Johnny wiggles his head like a smug cat and pops a shelled one into his mouth. “Pistachio,” he says happily. “Mm. _Pistaaachio.”_

“You’re so fucki’g weird,” Peter cracks. His whole chest is so warm it’s choking him. Johnny is the worst person alive. Disgusting and terrible and—bad. Bad bad bad. “Hey, I love you. Like, so mbuch. It could prob’ly choke mbe out, violendtly and—with bad intendtions, dats how mbuch.”

Johnny’s gaze pops up from his bag of nuts. “Aw, gross.” Then he leans over, a little disbelieving. “Are you—are you about to cry? Oh, Petey. Sweet boy. Come here, you fart bag.”

Peter laughs wetly, scooting into Johnny’s side. “I don’ know why I’mb crying. I’mb sick. You suck. You give mbe embotions. Take ‘em back.”

Johnny wraps Peter up in his arms and tugs him closer, practically onto his lap, peppering kisses all over his cheeks as Peter wheezes and snorts a little. He’s snotty and gross. Johnny is brilliant and beautiful and amazing and everything Peter needs. 

“Don’t worry, sweet cheeks,” Johnny says nuzzling their noses together. “I’m here to take care of ya.”

Peter nods, smiling, their noses dragging against each other’s. “I kndow. You’re too stubborn ndot to.”

Johnny says, “You love that about me.”

Peter burrows his face into Johnny’s shoulder, feeling smothered in the best way possible. “Heck yeah I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely based on my own experiences! i had these three illnesses for three weeks at the same time this past winter before i was diagnosed! now i have an inhaler forever because my lungs are fucked for life!
> 
> i hope you all are safe. this is a moment of levity in a dark time. i'm begging you to use your voice and stand up for the black lives that have been stolen. use social media. protest if you're physically able. donate. sign petitions. email representatives. we can only make a change if we all stand up TOGETHER. black lives matter. i am not black, but i hear you; i stand with you; i speak with you.
> 
> so much love to everyone.


End file.
